Cougar Problems
by sian22
Summary: Mablung's Second Ithilien Ranger company encounters an unexpected menace that threatens the good people north of Emyn Arnen. It takes the Prince and Lady of Ithilien to sort the puzzle out. Crackfic. Because now I am getting inspiration from the Gainsville Police Force's tweets! It is all Arizona Poppy's fault.
1. Chapter 1

Happy Unbirthday Eschschiola! As promised... The Cougar Problem set with permission in Annafan's 'Surrender to the Steward' universe and featuring a few *cough* cameos. See if you can guess who is who? unbeta'd.. you have been warned...comma issues lurk ahead ^_^

* * *

 _Fourth Age 020_

"Do I have too? Captain."

"You do, Lieutenant. Just like every new recruit. Now sit straight and no more griping. Brayt can't work if you're staring at your boots."

Mablung barks the order with just enough heat to stick; loud and a little startling in the warm heaviness of the room. Outside the wide barracks windows it's a golden late summer afternoon. Twin clouds of tawny dust kick up: one from the latest greenhorn to be set into the dirt; the other from the threshing team for harvest's come again. How did that happen? _Or this,_ thinks Mablung's doing his level best to treat his new lieutenant as just another raw recruit. It's hard (damned so). Time's slipped again and a boy he's known since leading strings is now stationed in his troop.

Elboron. Firstborn of Faramir and Éowyn. Eighteen and commissioned and already blooded in service to the King.

Can't be true. But is. The evidence sits, a little resignedly, before his eyes.

He is oddly touched by the hurriedly remembered rank.

Smartly turned out in dress tunic and silver buttons, Elboron fidgets just enough to protest but obligingly lifts up his eyes. Brayt cocks his head and studies the fall of the fading day's mellow light, just ever so slightly turns the youth's bearded chin. His charcoaled fingers leave a small smudge of grey amidst the gold. "Much better my lord. Now I pray you keep very still."

The little man hurries back to his stool, pulls up his parchment to his knee and quickly settles back to work, instinctively understanding the men have only so much patience for _this_ duty. He glances up and back, murmuring to himself, deft fingers sketching out the beginnings of shoulders, neck and chin.

Beside him stands a trestle table covered in small wood blocks, assorted knives and sharpened chisels. Orvan the printer, who will take up the portrait and turn it into relief, is looking on and nodding eagerly; waiting for the image to come to him to carve. Garrulous to a fault, in the quiet pauses between Brayt's polite and deferential manoeuvering he happily waxes rapturous about his new vocation.

It sets Mablung's teeth on edge.

"It's a problem sir, and your lord father saw it right enough," Orvan gushes, pale hands flailing in excitement and nearly knocking loose a frame. "Too many new Rangers and the folk further up the vales don't get to know the Men. Not like Captain Beregond's company stationed near the hall. You'd be surprised how many widows are living on their own, way up off the North Road. We don't want them surprised and suspicious when you come haring out o' the trees."

' _No we did not,_ ' thinks Mablung to himself. Some of them would just as soon put an arrow in a strange man's backside as question him. Some of them nearly had. Leyt, who has his near Silvan eyesight to thank for not meeting Irmo before his time, sported Widow Lara's sincerely apologetic bandage for _weeks_.

Embarrassing. And needless.

Now that the Steward's new-fangled printing press is firmly (if somewhat skeptically) ensconced, the people learn the Rangers' names and how they look. The leaflets go out to every market and road marker, announcing the new recruits and (as in this case) the occasional new officer. All very tidy and organized. It's the posing for the portrait that they resent: an hour or more lost time, holding still when they'd rather get on the job.

Mablung stalks back to his small inner sanctum, sits on the corner of his immaculately tidy desk (a virtue pounded in by Madril, not their messy former Captain) and glares at the paperwork, hoping it will go away. When it doesn't he reluctantly picks up a sheaf, scratches at his greying beard and begins to read. All of it is routine: a lost cow retrieved, two episodes of drunken fisticuffs, a joint exercise with Legolas' men. Straightforward enough that he keeps one eye on Leyt's report and another on the artistic efforts. Strictly speaking he needn't be in here, would much rather be outside training in the yard, but with Elboron's platoon heading soonest north of Henneth Annun, he wants to keep a weather eye on how the lad's settling in.

Can't be easy being the Steward's son and a prince. Made to take a post in every corner of the army.

There'll be some good natured razing just like he's getting now.

"Bayt are you certain you've got his nose? It looks a trifle small!"

"How about his eyes? Are they just the shade of grey?"

Orvan doesn't help. Oblivious to the catcalling, he hovers over Bayt's shoulder, clearly mulling how thick to get the ink. The woodblock works wonders but is a little crude for showing tones. "Be sure to catch that he's so fair, my friend. Not too many strands where the ink might merge."

Brand and Corwin, the next victims of the scheme, seem to forget this fact and break down whispering and snickering at his words. "Ooo yes. Not too many strands. Don't want the lasses thinking he isn't pretty."

Mablung's jaw tightens reflexively. Both are sixteen. Raven haired like their Minas Tirith fathers and _if_ one were charitable- pleasant faced. Their words aren't meant to fly but their Captain has many years of keeping tabs on every rustle in the forest. He sets the report back and rises, noting how Elboron, tucked in the farther corner, can hear it too. The boy, blessed with his father's canny ears, sits stiffly, barely batting an eye as ordered but the thin long fingers in his lap clench harder, knuckles white.

His mother's son in this. Pride makes him want to hit. Even when he knows he can't.

Mablung sucks in a breath and hollers through the door. "Private!"

"Sir?"

"Yer next, _Private_ Brand. Best you remember that. And if I hear anymore artistic comments you'll be counting fletching feathers one by one. For a week. " he growls with enough menace to make a youthful cheek blush red. That'll shut 'em. At least until Orvin begins fussing once again.

Over by the window Elboron breaks form and full on _grins_ , mouth quirking up in a wide and wry exact duplicate of his dead uncle's smile.

 _Nienna's mercy_.

Boromir's mouth. Faramir's eyes. And Lady Eowyn's hair.

If he is privately in some doubt there's a female left in Ithilien that _doesn't_ know their young Crown Prince is blond, the veteran Captain keeps it to himself.  
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For those wondering about the original tweet.. google Gainsville Police and cougar... grin


	2. Chapter 2

Elboron folds the parchment of Eldarion's latest letter from Annúminas and tucks it safely into his tunic. He'll finish reading after supper when there is more leisure: time to enjoy all the sights second-hand and keep better track of the many important artists and poets and musicians Dari is having a chance to meet.

Lucky man. Landed in clover once again.

He picks up the company's latest report and tries not to let a twining vine of jealousy take hold. The heir to the United Realms, his best friend and sword-brother, has as his first assignment the fabled capital of Anor while he, the crown Prince of Ithilien, distinguished on the field by the King himself for his bravery in the Battle of Núrn, is watching over a small village in Ithilien's northern woods.

Ugh. It feels rather like being posted to Emyn Arnen's own backyard. Too close to home. Too safe. Perfect for babysitting if one is being easy on one's heir.

He shoves that thought away. It is not fair to Father. He did not make the assignment-Mablung did-and in truth, _Fuiriach_ does need the help. The scenic little ford on Anduin's northern tributary is bursting at the seams. Many folk wish to settle where there is a working mill and this close to the Morannon they do need regular patrols. The spot is pretty: a gently rounded bowl nestled into Ithilien's rocky, northern woods. Rougher and wilder country than his home in Emyn Arnen. He loves the craggy slopes and dark pines and swiftly rushing river. The men under his command are a mix of younger Rangers and Anorien guards with a few veterans thrown in for their experience. So far he's handled livestock disputes, blissfully taken a long patrol that circumnavigated their entire range and worked to get to know his populace. Hardy for the most part. Happy to do for themselves but also enjoying the company of the local pub. His first time in he was embarrassed to be spotted drinks by the self-styled mayor but made sure to buy a round for his men. And his benefactor.

The biggest challenge to that point (if he can truthfully call it that) was helping to clear debris from the short, fierce thunderstorm that knocked trees down and upended carts and bales. The biggest (but briefly heart stopping) concern was checking the thin plume of smoke that snaked up the ridge in its aftermath. The summer is uncommonly hot and dry. Patches of shorter spruce across the lower slopes attest to the frequency of wildfires but mercifully his hastily convened bucket and water bag brigade soon put it out.

Elboron sighs and tries to focus on the completeness of his summary. The events so far have hardly needed a formally trained Swan Knight, but he knows he should be grateful. Peace of any type is preferable to hordes of Orcs. Or furious Dunlendings. Three summers attached to his Uncle-King's Éored were an education in diplomacy and running skirmishes. He has no doubt about his fighting skills. He is strong and broad, heavier already than Faramir, and noted for his sword work. The men have not hazed him more than is acceptable. It is just that he feels a little nervous on the people-handling part. His father has emphasized _listening_ to the folk, talking care to understand what lies below before making any judgements. Easy for Ithilien's Prince to say when he has had forty years of practice Ranging and twenty years as Steward.

(Fifteen years of breaking up disputes between he and FIn do not count whatever Faramir might say. All that involves is a disappointed snort and a disapproving eyebrow.)

He dips his quill and writes a few more lines about the threat of animals taking livestock. Dry weather can mean less feed. Several sheep and just as many cows have vanished. They've investigated and kept an eye out on patrol but so far the only signs of note have been bear prints and scat down the river and the broad round pads of mountain lions. Nothing humanoid with claws. Or human boots.

The sand is just settling over the wet ink when the jowly and weathered features of Private Harn peeks round the door.

"Sir, there's report of a theft. Can you some see?"

A theft? That would be something new. Elboron rises eagerly, mindful of his scabbard, and strides out into the common room that serves as their lounge and offices. With one patrol out at the moment, three privates strive to look busy as Rorice, the Miller's eldest son stands cap in hand in the middle of the floor. He is just a year or so older than 'Bron himself, but even broader still—a band of solid muscle from stacking heaving sacks. Easygoing on the few times they've had a chance to talk.

Elboron stops near and nods in greeting. "Rorice, what can I do for you?"

"Not for me, Lieutenant," the young man explains and Elboron smiles, relieved to find his efforts are bearing fruit. It has taken weeks to teach the folk to call him anything but 'Lord Prince'. "The widow Aidrien's lad's came down mill to say they've had something pinched."

A flicker of surprise runs amongst the men. 'Pinched' means robbed. By Men. Not beasts or Orcs. Elboron rubs thoughtfully along his chin. "How long ago?"

"This morn. Boy's just been and gone."

"Well then we'd best get someone up there sharpish to take a look." He turns to survey the men, gaze alighting on one who is polishing his blade. "Cervelli can…."

His order is cut off as Rorice flushes, puts up a hand, cheeks pink with embarrassment "Scuse me sir. Not him. AIdrien asked for _you_." A boot scuffs awkwardly. "By name and like."

 _She did?_ ! That is surprising and unusual. His brow furrows. A widow living alone past the limits of the village could feel vulnerable when she's victim of a theft but any of the men should do. Is there some other issue? A feud or bad blood between neighbours? From what he knows Mistress Aidrien keeps to herself and does not mix much with the other goodwives on market day.

"Is there anything I should know?"

He holds Rorice's mild brown eyes a moment longer but the man simply shrugs. "'Tis a mystery, Sir."

Elboron sighs but finally nods in assent. It is a fine day for a ride and would do Sûlion no harm to get a bit of exercise. After months on the march the stallion is getting restive. "All right then. I will be along directly."

Rorice slaps his cap back on his head, tugs at his forelock and bids good day.

In his wake Elboron checks the slant of the sun. Just gone past noon. The errand will not take long. There's no need to bring another man and Leyt's patrol will be back from southeast ridge by supper.

"Harn you have the watch."

"Yes, Sir."

As he rounds the building heading for the stable block there is a faint but distinct chorus of catcalls. And an imprudently mumbled "Yer famous now."  
.

* * *

.

A candlemark later Elboron dismounts his stallion, tosses the grey's reins loosely over the fencepost and turns to cast an eye over the homestead's yard.

All is neat and orderly. There are flowers in the window boxes and along the neat front walk. A fresh coat of whitewash covers the solid daub. A goat shares a tidy pasture with a sleek bay roan. All typical of the better homes in the village but for one striking feature he spies above the door.

A carved and curved cow horn. Nailed above the lintel for good luck.

'Bron smiles for he's seen many of its like in his tours with Éomer about the wold. The widow Aidrien was of the Riddermark.

" _Westu_ Aidrien _hal_!" he hails loud enough to carry in perfectly unaccented Rohirric.

" _Wilcuma_!" comes quickly back. From around the rear of the squat square house strides a beautiful young woman in kirtle and apron. Her hand is raised to shield her bright blue eyes and her long blond hair is caught a single heavy braid threaded with leather and bound with a brass bread.

Elboron cannot quite contain his pleased surprise. He's not met the woman previously and none in the company remarked upon her origins.

A widow from Rohan! Settled in Fuiriach!

He wracks his brain for what he does know. Aidrien settled here a year before, having lost her man in the second battle to clear the southern Mordor passes into Khand. She has one young son not yet of age for the village's formal school and is well off enough to pay for a well situated house but not take in other work. That fits with what he sees. Her _drynchorn_ is not the common plain horn of a labourer but the ceremonial drinking horn of a Rider in an Éored. A sign of status and safe harbour. He wonders what brought her so far from kith and kin.

He gives a short respectful bow. ""Lieutenant Elboron, mistress. It is a pleasure to see a _drynchorn_ here _._ "

"You know it?" The young woman rises from a quick curtsy of her own.

"I do. My mother has one at our home."

"A blessing on your lady mother. She obviously follows the old traditions."

Elboron does his best not to snort. "Follows" is too strict a word. Éowyn, Lady of Ithilien, adopts old ways that amuse or suit, but discards them left and right if they hamper her 'improvements'. The older stick-in-the-muds of Emyn Arnen village do not oft consider this a blessing.

"Mistress, forgive me, I did not expect a fellow countrywoman from your name."

Two spots of happy colour appear on her sun-kissed cheeks. _"Ûdryan_ twists the Gondorians' tongues somewhat," she chuckles. "A new name for a new home was easier.

He nods. This is not uncommon in his experience. And helps alleviate a little suspicion by some of those more chary at a foreigner in their midst. "Mistress, I have come because Rorice tells me you have been robbed."

Aidrien grips both hands in her apron. "Yes. In broad daylight. I had just finished putting the washing out."

Alarmed at the brazenness of the crime, Elboron follows her to the rear yard, looking carefully about for any evidence of missing items but seeing nothing immediately obvious. It takes a bold and desperate man to rob someone in the light of day. _Especially a woman familiar with a sword,_ he thinks, noting the calluses on her hand.

"It was just here."

He blinks, a little bewildered at the line of white smallclothes gently swaying in the breeze. Several petticoats hang beside chemises and light stockings. "What was here, madam?"

"My petticoat."

"My petticoat?"

"Yes, one of my best." Aidrien points to a prominent gap between two delicate chemises so sheer they would hardly hide a thing. "It was right there."

"Ah. Yes." Drat his father's pale complexion. An embarrassed flush of heat creeps up his throat and cheeks. "And you are quite certain it is nowhere about? Has not simply blown into the brush?"

"Of course. I have searched everywhere." Aidrien stands both hands on hips, her nose scrunching swiftly (and adorably) in annoyance. "Why would I call for help if there had not been a crime?"

So much for his hope that this—unorthodox—incident need go on report.

Nonplused, Elboron does his level best to conduct himself professionally. He interviews the lady about the exact time of day, the article's description, whether she had seen any suspicious folk about and what animals have been around.

"A wolf howling on the ridge last eve," she answers. "Nothing yet this day save squirrels. Léofot or the chickens would have raised a ruckus."

A careful exam of the yard and even up the farther slope reveals no human tracks about. Other than Aidrien's or the lad's. He checks, biting his lip when she points her toe, gets him to help when he asks to see it for comparison. (The hand on his shoulder is admirably strong and her ankle quite delicately thin.)

It is a mystery and truly, utterly odd. Why would someone steal a petticoat?

He is just jotting some last notes in his parchment with one of Aragorn's wonderfully helpful new charcoal pencils when Aidrien appears at his elbow with a winsome smile and a pitcher of chilled cider.

"I am so very grateful Lieutenant. I know this matter is quite simple for a man of your renown but I feel so vulnerable. Out here. All on my own." A pair of fine, fair lashes bat in the sun.

"Think nothing of it, mistress," he replies, clearing his throat awkwardly and smiling back. She really does have the prettiest cornflower eyes. "This is exactly what the Rangers are here to do. Keep the people who resettle safe from harm and strife."

Aidrien cocks her head and tucks a stray strand back behind her ear. "We are so very privileged that _you_ are here. The Prince's own eldest son. It is a great honour." She gestures with the jug. "This must be thirsty work. Would you like a pint?"

Elboron pauses. He hoped to hurry quickly back but the pewter jug clearly has just come from icehouse. Condensation runs temptingly down its sides. _"_ Perhaps a quick one wouldn't hurt."

The sweet-tart brew is excellent. Almost as good as Nera's and the best by far of the villagers'. Aidrien beams as he compliments her skill but then frowns to see him stow his notes away. "Must you go so soon my lord?"

"Lieutenant," he answers automatically. "I must. To file the report and enquire of other folk around. A neighbour must have seen something untoward."

Aidrien rolls her eyes expressively. "Start with Lalaith near the lower field. That one can't help but notice everything."

He is just about to ask her to elaborate when a small fair boy of five or six runs out from the shade of the barn to clutch tightly to Aidrien's skirts. " _Moder, moder_ is he going now?"

"Yes, he must," she chides, affectionately patting the blond head. "Be a brave boy, now Alec. Lieutenant Elboron is needed for many things."

He looks from one set of blue anxious eyes to the other thinking privately that any man who would be so churlish (or disturbed) as to steal a lone woman's underthings is unlikely to be put off by one mere patrol, but if Aidrien is relieved another visit could do no harm. "Mistress I can arrange to patrol here more frequently. To help deter the miscreant. Inhibit them from being so brazen once again."

"Oh that would make me feel so much better!" she sighs prettily. "And if you came yourself I could offer you my best beer. And _frikadeller_. Cordin, the huntsman, promises me a haunch of deer."

Elboron's mouth waters at the thought.

When he arrives back to the barrack Leyt and his men are already there, rubbing down their mounts.

"It was damned odd," he concludes from his perch upon a bale having regaled his second lieutenant with events.

"Agreed. Flamin' odd is what it is." The older man pauses as he wipes a rag over the gelding's sweat damp barrel. It is hot and they have ridden fast to be back before nightfall. Leyt's leather tunic might be already off and his shirt sticking to his ribs but the horses are tended first. "Can't think when I've ever heard the like."

"Nor I." Elboron runs a hand through his pale locks. Something strikes him as odd about the setting too, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

Leyt smacks his mount affectionately on the rump and dips his rag again. "Hai over, you big old lout." The vigorous rubbing begins to clear the darkened streaks and dirt. "This heat's enough to make man and beast go mad."

Indeed. It feels more like the hot dry plains of Rhun than north Ithilien. He wonders if their laundress has finished with his shirts, if there's a clean one in the press for his own ride back in the westering sun sent sweat trickling down his nape.

Suddenly Elboron snaps his fingers. "That's it!"

"Sir?"

"What seemed odd to me. It was washing day yet there was no tub. No sign of buckets or soap, brush or board. And the lady had no damp on her sleeves or skirt. "

Leyt grins. "Changed just because you were coming?""

Valar, save him. The last thing he needs is folk dressing up because the Prince's son is coming. "Mayhap."

He sighs and rises, leaving the men to their own ablutions. Supper will be soon. It is Corwin's turn to cook tonight. His fare is only marginally better than his temper.

Elboron finds himself looking forward to asking Mistress Aidrien a few questions once again.

When he tries her _frikadeller_.


	3. Chapter 3

Elboron bids a smiling Aidrien a heartfelt _beo þu gesund_ , swings up into the saddle and takes Sûlion at a a canter toward the westering sun.

He is late, has lingered rather longer at a most welcome early supper than perhaps he should, but nothing about the day has gone as planned. The serious distraction—report of a few Orc tracks in the mud of the lower creek—resolved better than any of them had hoped. A single, putrid creature was found in the bracken by their eagle-eyed young scout Sandroval. Shivering and shaking, burning up with fever from a rotted arm wound, a single blow from Harn's heavy blade had ended its pitiable suffering, but not his nagging worry. A strange theft and now a lone, loose Orc? Odd coincidences, and mindful of Faramir's admonition that trouble usually starts from the odd, Elboron swiftly doubles the patrols.

By the time he rode out past Fuiriach's small gathering hall and onto the northeast track, it had already gone midday.

Out of the frying pan into the hearth fire comes to mind.

His next destination is not far for Aidrien's closest neighbor lives just a ways down the track, closer to the Mill and centre of village life. Sûlion's smooth gait eats up the distance; they clatter into an immaculately tidy stable-yard and Elboron pulls the stallion up, looking around for signs of life.

No one is immediately apparent but then he spies a twitch of the front window curtains.

"We are being watched, my friend," he says, looping the reins around a hitching post. The stallion's ear swivels and Elboron sighs, suppressing a grin, as he tucks his riding gloves into his belt. Mistress Ellice is well known for the speed of her tongue. And the surveillance that aims to feed it.

He walks up to the stoop and raises his hand to the stout wooden door but it swings wide before he can start to knock.

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant Elboron, why this is an honour! Please, do come in. We were just sitting down to table."

A youngish woman in workday dress and kerchief is curtsying, gesturing to him to enter and he does so, nodding simply and doing his best to observe but not to stare. He has indeed interrupted their meal. Her husband, Geralt, and a lass and lad sit, utensils poised, at a laden, dark wood table before the unlit fire. A pair of wolfhounds rise from their haunches by their master's feet and pad forward to plant themselves squarely in his path.

"Hû, Thala, to me."

A chair scrapes back and Geralt rises, takes cap in hand as the dogs trot back and sit still as statues but with eyes locked on the intruder. Elboron approves, for good guard dogs are important in these parts, but the man looks embarrassed.

"Welcome my lord, pay them no never mind."

 _If I had a castar…_ he thinks, letting the title pass. "Not at all. They are admirably well-trained." He flashes a small smile to the wide-eyed children. The boy looks not much younger than his cousin Elfwine. It makes him briefly pine for Edoras' shimmering heat.

"Pardon me, Master, Mistress, for interrupting your meal but I wondered if you could be of help with our investigations?"

"Help?" Ellice flushes pink, tucks a stray strand of brown hair back behind her ear. "We'd be thrilled, of course. Of course." She looks to her man and back again, dark eyes twinkling, poised above a pair of dimples that quirk at her pretty mouth. "Simply thrilled, aren't we Geralt?" The man nods mutely and she beams. "Anything for the Prince's son."

 _Valar_. When he'd wondered aloud to Leyt about when the folk would become accustomed to his presence, the veteran had simply grinned and muttered, ' _by the time you leave._ '

 _Nienna_ , he hoped it wasn't so.

"I would be much obliged."

Ellice's hands flutter as she ushers him to a deep arm chair by the hearth. "Please, take a seat. Have you supped? Can I get you a plate? There's ale, and a stew of venison, and bread made fresh this morn."

It all sounds, and smells, wonderful but of course he's still full of Aidrien's good Rohirric fare. "No thank you, I have just eaten. " He gingerly lowers his tall frame into the seat. Geralt and his lady are settlers from near Celos. Sorel-haired and -eyed like all those folk, descendants of Men who did not move west when the world was young.

Hospitable and hard-working. And famously curious about everything.

He clears his throat before starting on the reason for his visit. "I came to ask if you have seen any unusual folk about. Mistress Aidrien was, er, robbed yester morn, perhaps you have heard about it?"

Of course she has. "Oh yes, Nerdel, the miller's wife, who heard it from her husband, told me of it. I was just popping in for more supplies." She shudders dramatically. "To touch a woman's _personal_ underthings. Shocking. Just shocking. And it broad daylight, too."

Elboron endevours to bring her back to the point. "And did you see any person on the road about that time?"

"Oh." Her dark brows narrow. "Why, no, I've not seen hide nor hair of anyone until you and your fine horse came along. But then I have been so busy what with baking day and the children's lessons I've not had a moment free to gander about the lane."

Elboron turns to the silent, attentive table. "Geralt?"

The older man shakes his head. "Nay, Lieutenant. I was cutting the first hay all the day. No one passed, other than young Alec."

Ellice sniffs. "That one…. A lad without a father."

"Now, Ell," Geralt's brows lower. He purses his lips a moment before making a shooing motion. Both children obediently grab their plates and scurry out to the yard. "Tis best not discussed before the _hîn_."

"But someone must tell the Lieutenant," she bristles, "It is not right for him to be seen with the likes of her."

A rather unsettled feeling gathers in Elboron's stomach. He has an inkling where this might be going but can't quite think of how to broach it.

Ellice, certain that he must told and not noticing his frown, carries on full sail. "Now I don't mean to get up in your business my lord, but I wouldn't dine with her too many times. Folk politely call her a 'widow' but," she draws breath for emphasis, "my sister's man knows a Ranger who knows a cook who worked for Marshal Gamling's eored. None keened that her man, Cynrec, had a wife. A scandal that's what it is. Raising their bastard openly."

Geralt nods warily. "Aye, good people around here are embarrassed to be seen with the likes of her." He looks uncomfortably at his boots, "Where the money to set up came from, that I'd like to know."

Elboron presses his lips into a firm straight line, doing his best to keep a neutral face. So Ellice, who was too busy to keep an eye on the road but has a strangely worn wood chair just at the window, knows where he had his meal? The way rumour flies like a running stag should not surprise him here, but he has to remind himself that before Sauron's defeat, Gondorians saw few of the Riddermark.

It is little wonder each other's cultures are misunderstood.

"I appreciate the advice," he begins, "and can see well that people in _Fuiriach_ might jump to conclusions, but having learned of my heritage from my Lady-mother, and spent many summers in Edoras with my Uncle-King," he adds for emphasis, "the Mark has traditions I have come to admire. No child of a Rohirrim, above or below the cloak, goes unacknowledged. Cynrec's own family will have welcomed them with open arms, given her money to settle here."

"Ohl!" Ellice's mouth rounds in thoughtful surprise and he thinks it might bode well for a little thawing in relations, but there is not time to explore this more. He rises. Something about her initial answer strikes him as true. If Mistress Ellice _had_ seen anything she would be delighted to tell him so. At length.

He bows respectfully and strides to the door, pausing with a hand upon the latch. "I do not believe there is reason to afraid of more theft. It is just the one incident. But," he catches Geralt's gaze, "you've heard of the Orc?"

Geralt stiffens instantly, drops a hand to the wolfhound's head. "Aye, Lieutenant. Ell brought the news back at noon. What should we do?"

Elboron hesitates, wondering how much to share. He does not wish to overly alarm but Cervelli's patrol would have yet to pass; they are visiting the out farms first. "Keep close for now," he says, "And armed. We should know soon if there are more of the creatures about."

"Was it very big?" Their lad, voice high with excitement, has come back in and crowds curiously at his father's hip.

He has never seen one, and praise Eru, he never will.

"About Tormac's size." The lad's eyes grow big as saucers. The blacksmith, who doesn't top Elboron but has twice again his girth, is the tallest man he will have seen. "It was injured, left behind from a patrol much farther off, we hope. Sandroval is our best tracker; he is out trying to ascertain how far it had come." This is the part that worries him the most. Where there is one there could be more. And they can move far at night. "I expect your hounds will warn you, but keep a keen eye about. And also for that thief, " he adds, taking his farewell.

As he and Sûlion trot out of the lane, he glances back just once, in time to see the curtain twitch again.

Whoever this thief is, they will not escape Mistress Ellice's enthusiastic gaze.

.

~~~000~~~

.

The second time it happens, the incident is even more of a puzzle than the first.

"Lieutenant… we've got another one."

"An Orc?!" Elboron starts up out of his chair, heart pounding, worried by the sight of Brand standing by the barrack door and frowning at a crumpled note.

"Nay, Sir. A theft."

"Oh." He huffs out a breath, watches every one of the men assembled in the little hall let their shoulders droop down again. They're all tired, a trifle damp and more than a little bit on edge. Three days of rain have washed away the rest of the Orc's farther tracks and _that_ means extra patrols will be the rule from here on in.

It is gruelling but he isn't convinced of the need for more men quite yet.

"Where is it?" he asks, frowning as Brand hands over the offending page. "Copper cliff? That is not up beyond the second fall?" Fuir creek starts in a triple fall of rushing water out of a notch on the rusty-tinged eastern ridge, swells handsomely before it meets the river in the bowl. It is a pretty spot but not exactly amenable to ranging animals or farming.

"Yes, sir." Brand may be new, but he has shown an excellent memory for location. "Second fork east of the creek."

This means it will be something of a trek. He looks out at the lowering skies and decides it is best to send someone who's is not still actively dripping on the floor. "Cervelli, you'd better go."

"Copper Cliff, not bloody likely." The young sergeant blanches to the roots of his long, lanky hair for speaking to his commander so _is_ somewhat out of line. "Begging your pardon, Sir. But Leyt's still marked by that wildcat."

Elboron stares, incredulous for a moment, but then realization dawns. It was in Mablung's notes. Leyt was wounded by a suspicious landowner. Just a misunderstanding, but surely one that now is rectified.

"Leyt, you know this Mistress Lara." The man nods warily. "Can you take Brand, then, and go?"

"Lieutenant…."

Leyt may equivocate, hesitate to contradict his young commander in front of the men, but his private is not shy at all.

" _Valar,_ not me, " says Brand. "You've got to watch that one. She'll shoot your balls off. With a bow."

Elboron scoffs at that. "Come now, it not unusual for folk out here to learn to defend themselves. It was simply a misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding my backside." Brand shakes his tawny head. "You've not met her, Sir. A young thing who spends all her time in the forest since her parents and brother drowned. A little fey. Wanders the woods hunting for herself."

Elboron glances round the room. The veterans are nodding carefully, not yet chiming in, but then Harn surprisingly speaks up. "She's actually a good tracker. Comes down sometimes. Helped us a time or two. _Before_ the…incident," he adds, pulling his steaming boots on the hearth back from getting singed.

Leyt flushes and rubs thoughtfully at his arm. "She said she wasn't aiming to do harm."

 _Was not aiming_? Tulkas, that would imply she could be deadly if she choose. Elboron catches Leyt's dark gaze. "I assume you've versed her in our badge?" They have a sigil—white tree upon a silver star—that is the mark of the White Company, and Elboron is relieved to see Leyt nod. "If the lady ranges widely she may have seen something unusual we have missed," he muses, thinking of the Orc and how that makes it doubly important to establish a good rapport. Odd or not.

He strides to their makeshift map upon the wall. "Can you show me exactly where is her stead?"

"Yer going yerself?" Brand looks incredulous.

"Well I hardly think she'll shoot a man who's blond and riding a Dol Amroth war horse, do you?" he chuckles, "I will take this one for the good of your safety shall I?"

Brand flushes and begins to point out the path, but every one of the soldiers looks relieved.

"I'll be sure to keep my intentions clear."

Leyt goes back to stitching at a loose saddlebag. "It's not _your_ intentions I'd be inclined to worry on."

~~~000~~~

.

.

The account of Lara's aggression has been so detailed that Elboron feels a slight flutter of anticipation in his stomach as he approaches her small wood cabin.

The verge is wildly overgrown with elf-lace and sunspray; the wooden shakes on the roof look as if they could use some nailing, and the faded window boxes stand empty. Obviously Lara spends little time worrying about her abode—but the horse happily cropping grass in the field looks combed, and the few chickens pecking in the yard are bright-eyed and clean.

She is more concerned with livestock then. And security. He wonders where her people come from. This is an isolated spot. The last of the high falls and Fuir Peak looms above. Most young women finding themselves alone and isolated in North Ithilien would choose to move back with family, however distant the relationship.

Elboron dismounts, hobbles Sûlion and slowly advances, half expecting to be met by the pointy end of an arrow, but all is quiet. No one is in the yard but there is a thin plume of smoke rising from the chimney. Someone is home. But has not come haring out.

Perhaps this will be a straightforward assignment after all.

He walks slowly up the small flight of steps, announcing his presence in what he hopes is a suitably loud voice. "Mistress Lara? I am Lieutenant Elboron. I have come to investigate your theft."

The rough-painted front door cracks slowly open. A young woman stands there, hand in the bristling fur of an enormous deerhound. She is very tall, with a narrow face and auburn hair, grey-green eyes and the tanned skin of one who spends the day outdoors. Almost Sylvan in appearance.

Curiously, her apron and callused fingers are stained a little red.

"Lieutenant?" she asks slowly, the corners of her mouth turning up. "Tis good of _you_ to come."

Is she jesting that he might have declined? Been too afraid? Elboron stands nonplussed, uncertain quite how to respond, but then he catches a twinkle in her eye to go with the wry half grin.

The lady most definitely is jesting. It puts him at his ease. Feisty, combative young women inclined to subtle teasing he has had more than enough experience with.

He's grown up with Finduilas after all.

"Mistress Lara," he nods solemnly and smiles. "It is no trouble. Of course the Rangers must investigate. What has been stolen? Nothing of great value I sincerely hope?"

Lara pauses and pushes the door a little wider, lets the hound out, reaching in to pick up a bow. It is black and made of Lebrethon, nearly the height of his father's own. _Tulkas_ ' rod, a thief would have to be desperate to attack someone noted for their aim with _that._

"Round back," she says, slinging the bow and quiver up, striding purposefully down the steps. He follows, noting a deerskin drying in the sun and a long rack of dark pink fish, neatly filleted and set out to cure. Lara clearly does for herself, without much need to market.

She leads him to the south side of the cabin where a rope with gently flapping laundry runs between the eaves and a tall pine tree.

"This," she says pointing up at the row of well-patched skirts and blouses.

"What?"

"My petticoat."

Elboron's eyebrows fly up so fast it is wonder they do not escape. "Your petticoat?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Lieutenant," he corrects automatically, but Lara hardly misses a beat.

"Bold as brass, the thief. It was just here on my laundry line."

"When?" He pulls his notebook out. This can't be happening again. "When did you see it last?"

"Twilight yesterday. I left the things damp on the line before I went berrying. I was back just as the light fell."

There is nothing for it but for Elboron to question her in detail. No, she has not seen anyone around, nor tracks of man or beast. Yes, she lives alone, but has no need of help. No, nothing else has been pinched.

The petticoat is white, with embroidery of leaves about the hem.

He coughs, unable to block the imagined sight of white lace above neat ankles. "This is not the first such theft," he explains, a little hoarsely.

"I had heard," admits Lara, a faint tinge of pink creeping up her cheeks.

"And has word come to you of the Orc we found?"

"Yes, Rorice told me of it. It's dead, I understand."

"It is, but we have been unable to trace whence it came. Have you seen sign of anything unusual moving in the forest?"

Lara shakes her head. "Nay. Nothing passing in too great a file. Nor prints I can't explain. I'd have sent word if I had."

That makes Elboron feel a little more relieved. Thus far, there are no reasons to suspect a larger band of the vermin. Elessar and his father have done much to rid eastern Gondor and even Mordor of their scourge but it is not beyond the realm of possibility for a lone band to be hiding in Ephel Duath's jagged teeth.

This is why the permanent patrols have been maintained since he was a lad.

"We'd appreciate you keeping eyes about nevertheless. You needn't worry," he offers quickly, but then wants to kick himself. To reassure is automatic but this woman seems unlikely to be worried for herself. "We expect no greater threat. It is more that it is odd."

She smiles gently, and shows a row of many small white teeth.

The look is slightly feral. Especially with the great bow upon her back.

"I am confident, Lieutenant, that you will keep us all safe. And solve the case. 'Twas my only petticoat that fine. For Mid-summer and harvest and Metarre."

"Do you mind if I take a look around?"

"Not at all. Be my guest."

Elboron is relieved when she does not dog his steps, merely returns to her inside chores. He does his best to be thorough: walking through the knee high weeds and thinned forest edge behind the house; searching for any sign the item might simply have blown away. There is nothing. No sign of odd broken branches or scraps of torn whitework. No sign of anything at all, other than woodpeckers and small rodents at their work.

He checks, but no enterprising squirrel has pulled a petticoat up a tree.

"Thank you Lieutenant," Lara says, meeting him at Sûlion's stirrup holding a napkin-covered basket of brambles in the crook of her arm. She offers it a little shyly. "Please, take these to the troop for all your efforts. The picking is good these days, the lower bushes are almost laden down."

Elboron smiles, surprised, and thinks wistfully of Emyn Arnen's lower slopes. He's spent many sunny summer days with Finn and Theo, fingers pricked and faces smeared with berry juice. Éowyn always complains that she gets but half the haul for jam. "Why, thank you! The men will be very pleased."

"And you, I hope?" she smiles, watching him mount and passing up the basket, waiting patiently while he stows it in a saddle-bag. "If you have need to investigate again, remember I will be making jam mid-week. And after market day is my baking day."

 _Is Lara inviting him back for a meal?_ Elboron stares, a little flummoxed, thinking how odd from a woman fabled for her reticence.

"I will bear that in mind. Good day to you Mistress," he finally bids, gathering up the reins and nodding back.

By the time he reaches the main road he has convinced himself it would be appropriate to visit once again.

Just to make certain they consider her unofficial scouting in the patrols.

Of course.

.

~~~000~~~

.

Not a week goes by before the thief strikes again and the victim asks specially for 'Bron.

He is flattered but also now beginning to be a bit alarmed. _Fuiriach_ was supposed to be an easy post. Quiet. Out of harm's way and mostly law-abiding, but Mablung has said nothing of it harbouring a den of thieves.

What would one do with petticoats? The whole troop is theorizing. Harn opines they'll sell them on and advocates checking the next village over come market day. Brand offers that they'll make handkerchiefs to last a year. Cervelli wonders, to loud guffaws, if the thief will wear them.

"What? My mother's sister's husband was caught in a dress and kirtle once."

Elboron grins,shaking his head: he could imagine one, but two? Quite why they are all convinced the miscreant is a man - it seems to be the universal theory—he doesn't understand, but he does know this. Whoever it is, they need to be caught. And soon.

Unexplained,repeated thefts make everyone more than a little nervous.

He finishes pinning the day's altered roster on their board before holding his hand out to Brand for the note. His second lieutenant and a small group were up all night following 'something big and odd' through the woods. It turned to be a moose-a very long way from the Greenwood and wholly unfamiliar to the local folk. Thank the _Valar_ they'd not had to shoot the thing.

The private looks blearily at the parchment, passes it across, grinning from ear to ear. "It's another petticoat, sir. And widow."

A ripple of laughter goes around the room. Elboron blushes but does his best to ignore the men's amusement for the moment. The name is unfamiliar. He turns to Harn for more information. "Widow Caralyn? What do we know of her?"

"Now there's another strange one, Sir. Lives alone at the edge of the village. Lost her husband in the Rhunic war. She's Gondorian right enough. Hair black as coal, but cut short just like a man."

Elboron presses his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. Why does hair have to be so complicated? He's been called vain for letting his hair grow just like the Rohirrim. A patsy by his Uncle's Riders for shaving on patrol. And once, in Pelargir, most embarrassingly been mistaken for a girl because of his long blond side braids. They're Elvish style and highly practical. Keeps his hair from off his face.

"Sergeant, I hardly think that is cause for scandal."

"Perhaps, but it's more that she's tinkering with things. Smokes a pipe at times. Rides a _draisine."_

 _"_ A what?"

 _" A drasine._ The two-wheeled, wooden horse-thing invented by the dwarves ** _."_**

"Really?" Elboron has never seen one, although he's heard Gimli speak about them once. Possibly very practical, if you cannot afford hay and board. "Well then," he says, strapping on his sword belt. "Leyt, Sandro, get some sleep. You look dead on your feet. Cervelli you have the watch. I shall be back by noon."

~~~000~~~

In the end, he was back far earlier than that. In time, in fact, for their brief morning break.

This investigation is completed rather quickly

Widow Caralyn is very pretty, very helpful and most eager for him to try her elderberry cordial.

"And when did it go missing?" he asks, raising his hand and refusing the second offer. The concoction is likely lethal on an empty stomach and he's had no chance to eat. Breakfast was before dawn: a single slice of bread scarfed while he took report from Leyt.

"Uhm… last night. Or maybe the night before. When I was asleep."

 _Two_ nights out on the line? Fuiriach's widows apparently like to let their laundry ripen- like grapes sitting in the sun.

"What did it look like?

The widow blinks. "Like?"

"The petticoat. Can you describe it?"

"Er," she flushes, looking out to the offending gap on washing line as if it will jog her memory. "Pink. With ruffles."

 _Pink ruffles_? He eyes her tan breeches and the spade waiting in the burgeoning vegetable patch. Caralyn has proudly shown him the drasine and how it works, remarked that breeches make it far easier to move.

The drying line has shirts and socks and underthings. And three pairs of hard-wearing breeches.

Not a skirt in sight.

He snaps his notebook shut as a twining vine of doubt starts to niggle at his brain.

"Thank you Mistress. We shall be in touch."

.

~~~000~~~

.

The crime wave spreads.

Elboron, (who wonders if the thefts and threat of Orc have made the populace go a little mad), deals with half a dozen more petticoats lifted from the washing lines of Fuirach intrepid widows. Pink. White. Ruffled or embroidered. The thief curiously has a taste for luxury but, mysteriously, no one strange is seen haunting the outskirts of the village. Once, on a sticky afternoon when he has just arrived back from scouting the far ridge top, he tries to send Cervelli (he of the dreamy eyes, dark curly, lanky hair and perpetually stubbled jaw), but that sadly does not work. The lady in question simply sends the embarrassed sergeant back, explaining that the Lieutenant is the one who has the case.

The inhabitants of the barracks roll their eyes, but hold off catcalling for the nonce-they have finally heard Elboron lose his temper and know when to hold their tongues.

As the first lazy weeks of Urui arrive, there are other odd reports.

Harn helps a widow with a broken well who boldly enquires if he needs Elboron for backup.

Another never-married lady living on her own sends Rorice's lad with a cryptic note: "I feel faint, please send help."

Aidrien and Caralyn almost come to blows on market day, vying for the last, best cut of veal.

Elboron would not complain about this wave of popularity but his belt is in danger of needing to be let out a notch.

And it is a bit distracting when one is hunting for hidden Orcs.

It all comes to a head on the last day of the new week. Most of the village is assembled in the square, enjoying a day full of blessings for Yavanna's bumper crop of blueberries and barley, a welcome respite before the harvest begins in earnest. A golden day of high bright skies and beaming sun that should bring nothing more untoward than a little public drunkenness. Or possibly a crying child or two.

Elboron stands at the brewer's table, tasting the new batch of summer ale, when he feels an insistent tug at his shirt. He has given the men a day of rest for they _have_ been patrolling almost nonstop: he is the Ranger's only one representative with badge and sword-belt on.

"Lieutenant?"

"Yes?" He looks around and down to see a small freckled girl standing wide-eyed, but otherwise quite unconcerned.

"Lieutenant Elboron can you come? My sister cannot swim."

 _Valar_. He sets the forgotten pint back down with a hurried clink. This is one of the more common accidents and the one he fears the most. _Fuiriach's_ good citizens are justifiably wary of the river's current and almost none of them can swim.

"What?! Where is she? Quickly!" He looks over past the mill race but sees no knot of folk.

"This way!"

The girl. who looks familiar but he cannot place her name, pulls him not right but left, toward the square's central pond. Sure enough there is a cluster of women at the edge. He pelts over quickly, hastily pushes his way through as the crowd falls back: the sound of a cry for help is thankfully still strong but who knows how long the lass will last.

At the water's edge he stops just long enough to pull off boots and jerkin, unbuckle his sword belt and eye the weed-choked, lily-festooned surface before diving in.

The water is mercifully warmer than the river.

He surfaces and in a few quick strokes is beside the thrashing girl. Her sodden skirts balloon right up, twined like her long dark hair with the lilies and longer weed. He has to push them down to gather near.

"Hold onto me," he urges, stretching out his hands, and she gives tearful cry, clings onto his shoulder like a limpet.

"I will. Oh my lord, I will."

Elboron swims one-handed, carefully holding her in his left but soon finds his feet have purchase in the ooze.

 _The pond musn't be very deep?_

When he emerges with the bedraggled, dripping girl in his arms and his wet linen shirt conspicuously clinging to his biceps and stomach, two things happen to make up his mind.

The audience breaks into applause.

And the victim-Rorice's next younger sister-clings to him after he carefully sets her on her feet. He does his best to avert his gaze from the way her blouse molds to her chest. "Oh Elboron, you are my hero," Lilet sighs.

Unfortunately it is loud enough for most of the assembled throng to hear.

"Not. One. Bloody. Word!" He hisses, breeches dripping a pool of dark on the dusty square, to a grinning off-duty Harn.

 _Can the day can get no worse._

It can.

If it is not embarrassing enough to be gushed over, the ladies of the village are now whispering and pointing. Giggling behind their hands. Eying his wet form _more_.

It turns out he has a pink lily flower stuck to his wet backside.

When he finally hands the fawning Lilet over to the care of her worried, clucking mother an even more startling revelation clicks.

He knows it for a fact that the Miller has taught _all_ of his children how to swim.

.

~~~000~~~

.

Mablung, a week and another five petticoats, two shawls and one chemise later, decides to ride up by himself.

He is trying not to be too alarmed by the almost pleading tone of the young lieutenant's admirably detailed letter. Anyone can have a rash of incidents. Get overwhelmed when it's all new, but this-this- is decidedly untoward. More than just sheer bad luck and like nothing in his experience.

The Captain and Lieutenant have left the barracks and come to sit outside; at ease in the shade of the spreading oak, sharing a bottle of Éowyn's famous honey mead. Mablung pulls out his hastily assembled loot: letters from Eldarion and Theomund, and another from the Prince; a somewhat woebegone looking spice cake from his mother that was perfect a day ago; and a sketch of Emyn Arnen's _mallorn_ in bloom from Finn.

It is the last almost reduces a suddenly homesick Elboron to tears.

Mablung's advice in the face of this (quite reasonably) overwhelming situation is to keep to the high road, ignore the offers of food/drink for a while but investigate each incident of theft seriously. If Elboron sends out the other men for a time or three, sooner or later the frenzy will die down. It is appropriate and, Mablung thinks, a suitably unobtrusive approach. Won't undermine Elboron's authority _and_ send a message to the womenfolk.

Unfortunately it also backfires.

 _Fuiriach_ 's widows are made of sterner stuff. Brand and Cervelli and even Harn come back with detailed descriptions of phantom underthings and, alarmingly, offers for 'your handsome lieutenant' to stop by because 'they don't yet feel very safe'.

There is a noticeable tendency for the purloined underwear to be more and more elaborate.

As if the women are vying to outdo each other in intimate ostentation.

 _Morgoth's bleedin' balls._

He has just about decided to go follow up himself, get in a good glare or two, when Private Brand sticks his head round the door.

"What is it now, Brand?" he growls, somewhat regretting sending Elboron out on a long patrol up to the higher falls and the isolated cabin to can 'inspect' for several days. But the lad deserves a break. "Don't tell me there's been another theft of a petticoat."

The young soldiers swallows nervously. "No, Sir. There's been two."

"What?!"

 _Valar_ , now he will have to brief the Prince.

.

.

* * *

Any guess who is who? ^_^

 _beo þu gesund_ is 'greetings for you' in Anglo Saxon. It is used equally for our goodbye and hello.

The flowers are Queen Anne's lace and wild marigold. A drasine is really an actual thing...a prototype of early bicycle.

I don't know how long JRR thought it would take to clear the lands of Orcs, but somehow I picture them canny enough to survive, here and there, in the wild.l It has been twenty years since the WoTR at this point and they are still fighting battles in restive pockets.

Mablung of this universe, actually does eventually settle down. With a widow of his own.


	4. Chapter 4

"Captain!"

"Captain!"

Mablung pauses in the act of crossing Emyn Arnen's courtyard and turns toward the sound of excited voices. A pair of tow-headed youngsters are exuberantly waving from the nearest garden bench, broad smiles on their tanned faces and sleeves rolled up for work.

They are almost as much two peas in a pod as the small mound of fresh green that sits between them.

"Théomund! Elfwine! Well met my lads."

He waves back, shifting the heavy dispatch bag at his hip and watching as both boys bolt up to make their way across the smooth flagstones. Théomund goes carefully and slow. Elfwine shortens his long stride to match, like a warhorse held on a tightened rein- obedient but struggling to contain his speed—solicitous as ever to his cousin's disability.

"You are back!" Théomund exclaims excitedly as he draws near and Mablung finds he cannot resist a swift, sure hug. For both young Princes. The Ranger has functioned as an alternate uncle to his Prince's children and their ever growing pack of cousins since they were but babes. To his eye they both look taller, sprouting like the White Lady's garden in the summer's heat, though he's only been gone a month. Particularly Elfwine, who seems much bulkier than the year before. He has given up the coltish look for solid strength. Already he is gaining inches on Théomund though he is a year behind.

The realization that next spring they will both be of an age to squire almost punches him in the gut.

"I am," he answers gruffly, hiding the sudden rush of emotion behind his well-worn curmudgeon cloak. "And what have you two miscreants been about?"

Théomund glances back to the dish and pile of green pods heaped on the bench's stone and makes a face. "Chores. Mother says we have to finish before we can take Aerlinn out on the lead."

Mablung nods approvingly. If he knows Emyn Arnen's youngest occupants they are shelling the fresh bounty faster than Princess Finduilas talks. Aerlinn is the new Mearas yearling gifted to Théomund by his Aunt and Uncle for his birthday. A striking dappled cream with amber eyes.

She is a beauty, and like all creatures she adores her new young master. "And how is miss filly doing?"

Elfwine practically bounces on his toes. "She's ever so patient! Takes the halter without fuss and already stops and starts on cue."

"Well done!" Mablung has no doubt Aerlinn will swiftly be ready to accept a saddle, for Elfwine under the tutelage of Edoras' chief groom is showing great potential as a trainer. He glances down, belatedly worrying he's keeping them standing too very long. "Have you seen your lord Father, Théomund?"

"He just came in from the vineyard. Mother was going to ask Gwinlith for tea."

The vegetable patch and herb gardens are Éowyn's desmesne but the compact vineyard is Faramir's. It is testing the hardiness of white grapes from his mother's dower fields. Mablung sighs, knowing he will have no time for a tour. "Well then. I must be off. I've business that should not wait."

He turns, about to stride away, when he feels a shy tug on his sleeve. "Pardon sir," asks Théomund, "but do you have letters in your satchel?"

"Do I?" _Do Rangers ever bet?_ He rearranges his mug into a smile. "Of course I do, lad."

"One for me from 'Bron?"

Mablung full on grins. Théomund, like his elder sister, FIn, has his Lady Mother's impatience for surprises. The urge to tease is strong but the pleading look is more than he can resist. "Yes. And one for each of you." Elfwine is beaming-receiving a letter from his commissioned cousin is far more exciting than the dutiful weekly missives from his many sisters. "Shall I leave them with your mother for when your work is done or will you have them now?"

The response is exactly what he expects. "Now!"

Mablung rummages in his bag for the two parchment packets and places one in each hand, calling _"Mind you finish every pod!"_ to the swiftly retreating pair of backs.

He continues round the south side of the house to where Éowyn 's pride and joy is burgeoning under the full Urui sun. Row on row of medicinal plants and neatly ordered vegetables recede down the terraced slope toward the orchard. It is a lovely sight. So much green and bounty where before there had been only ruin. He remembers with a pang the old Hurin manor's burned out shell, surrounded by thickets of prickly juniper and almost mummified in bindweed. Now the space is graceful and bright, graced with a home built of the tawny sandstone that lines Emyn Arnen's hills.

Its restoration is but one of many dreams come true after the Shadow fell.

He walks across the broad green lawn to where a small round table and chairs are set in the deep shade of the majestic mallorn tree.

"Mablung! This is a surprise!" hails Faramir, rising and pulling out a chair. "Come, please take a seat."

"Thank you, Sir," he replies, instantly alerting to the fact that this is not a social call. "I won't say no to resting these old bones." He bows to his Prince and Lady, sets his satchel down and sits, gratefully accepting a cup of cider and a delicate almond biscuit. For several peaceful moments he answers questions about himself (fine, as always), his wife Bethann (right as rain and keen to have him home) and the state of Ithilien's roads (untroubled by aught that he has seen). When the subject finally circles round to the substance of his visit, he does not fail to catch the quick worried look that passes between Faramir and Éowyn.

Both from Elboron's letters know a little of the situation plaguing their eldest, but not perhaps quite how –unorthodox—the incidents.

Faramir picks up a bright enamelled jug and reaches across the tablecloth to fill his wife's empty cup. "There has been no further trouble about the Orc?" he asks mildly, turning to catch Mablung with a dark upraised brow.

"Nay," the Ranger replies, shaking his head, thankful that in this he is the bearer of good news. "Twas just the one. The scouts tracked its course a long way back. Come down out of the Nindalf marsh. Likely wounded in the most recent skirmish."

Faramir nods slowly. The Brown Lands are proving hard to clear. Aragorn's army has routed a troop just the month before above the Emyn Muil. At some cost in mounts but praise Tulkas not in men. "That is a relief. I did not relish the thought that we might have missed a bolt-hole in Ephel Duath." He sits back, at once relaxed and yet more alert, setting down his own drink to point at the waiting satchel. "Then what news from Elboron?"

"Is all well with the town?" Éowyn chimes in, breaking apart a second biscuit. Mablung shifts awkwardly, hesitating Mablung as he tries to decide quite how to start. Ithilien's lady looks lovely and composed, the picture of a serene hostess, but he knows she is like a mother bear with cubs where her children are concerned.

"You do remember that Elboron mentioned thefts?"

"Yes."

"They were petticoats."

"Petticoats?!" both exclaim in surprise.

"And, ah, other underthings."

The Prince sits up, puzzled and a little shocked, but his lady's eyes are dancing merrily. "Women's underthings?" Éowyn asks in a disarmingly neutral voice.

"Yes my lady."

She has clearly jumped two steps ahead but Faramir is frowning, looking from his wife to his Captain. "But who would do such a thing? I like not the idea that the populace are stealing clothes because there is too little to go around."

Mablung clears his throat. "No sir. We do not believe exactly that."

"And it is not some animal seeking soft material for a den?"

An injudicious mouthful makes him choke. Beside, the Lady of Ithilien struggles to supress her smile. "Oh it's an animal all right," she notes.

Faramir's response is swift. "You know?!"

She nods. "A cougar."

"A cougar?!"

Éowyn lips twitch into a full on grin. "It is one Rohirric euphemism I have not taught you love. A cougar: a mature female on the prowl for a husband."

Faramir shakes his head in disbelief. "They wouldn't!"

"They would most certainly would and do. The evidence is all quite straightforward," she turns to Mablung, and begins to tick clues off on her elegant fingertips. "I assume there were no tracks. No dogs going crazy. Incidents all over town and country with no pattern to discern."

He nods to every one. "Aye, you have it exactly right. And," he pauses to take a deeper breath. "There have been other odd reports that support my lady's thesis."

" _Valar,_ I am not sure I want to know."

Faramir watches as Mablung reluctantly pulls another sheaf from his satchel and silently hands the notes across. He scans the pages quickly, getting paler by the moment and eyebrows shooting up at the nature of the calls. " _Send backup_ ….?"

"A local widow wanted a more senior soldier to investigate."

" _I feel faint. Send help_?"

"The mistress was quite fine by the time Elboron arrived."

" _My dog sees something in the woods_?"

"The lieutenant's investigation found the widow's hound mysteriously ran off." This last had Mablung nearly growling. Bloody waste of precious time but Éowyn is giggling, amused by the widows' brazenness even as her usually analytical husband has not quite grasped the why.

"Can word of an orc so close have made the women more than usually worried? More inclined to reassurance?" he asks.

 _More inclined to something_ , thinks Mablung, avoiding his lady's gaze, afraid he too might break down. All this is unorthodox but it is official business. "Nay sir. It err…umm.. Appears to be something of a conspiracy…." he finishes, finally.

"Conspiracy?!"

Mablung pulls out another sheaf and reads with all the steadiness he can muster. " _'I feel safer just looking at his picture._ ' ' _Sweet Eru I've broken the law, arrest me please_!' ' _I feel certain getting arrested in two locations in one night could be accomplished if done correctly_.'"

"Poor 'Bron."

"Poor Mablung!"

The Lady of Ithilien is laughing outright but he soldiers on. " _'I have a noise complaint to report. In advance. Send the lieutenant and the sergeant_.'"

Faramir's eyebrow climbs nearly off his forehead before, at last, breaks down into helpless chuckles, he exchanging looks with Éowyn. "Oh Mab….how did you come by this… intelligence?"

"Private Brand was most shocked by the conversations at the market well."

"Is 'Bron aware of these latest missives?"

Mablung shakes his shaggy head. "Brand hasn't had the heart to tell him yet. They've been careful not to provoke him very much. He's most unlike himself. Snapping like a starving bear in spring." The Ranger flushes, recalling the alert that was the final straw. "This was voted the most..err… original. ' _I'll purloin every breastbag in the countryside, every wash day of the week, if it gets me arrested by the entire troop_."

Éowyn is doubled over. "Bema, that's made even you blush, Mablung!"

He hastily takes a sip of cider, seeking to cool his cheeks. Beside, Faramir has composed himself enough to run a thoughtful hand through his hair. "When did all this begin?"

That, thankfully, can be answered easily. "Soon after Elboron arrived."

"You have sent others in his stead?"

"Repeatedly. It's made not one of them stop the foolishness. If anything they've been more bloody well determined."

"They?"

"At least half a dozen different widows."

Faramir utters his shieldmaiden's favourite Rohirric oath.

"Exactly, sir." Mablung sets the evidence neatly on the tables weathered wood, rises and looks forward to taking his leave. He is anxious for the calm of Bethann's easy quiet space. "I feel quite certain you my Lord and Lady will know how best to deal with it."

"We?!"

"It's time for a higher and, if I may be so bold, more cunning authority. The whole pack have ignored my admonitions."

"Did you growl?"

"Aye and they growled right back!"

He retreats to the sound of the Lady of Ithilien's ringing laugh.

.

~~~000~~~

Later that same evening the Lord and Lady of Emyn Arnen walk together arm in arm in the warm twilight, drifting past the beds of night-scented stocks, admiring the unfolding trumpets of white moonflowers. It is their habit each night to do so, speaking of the day's joys and cares, enjoying the last crimson of the setting sun as it lowers behind MIndolluin's bed. Most nights it is a quiet stroll, but not this one.

Éowyn is still laughing at her husband.

"I cannot believe you did not guess!"

Faramir shakes his head and tucks her arm in closer to her his side. "Dear heart, I will not gainsay that you are more astute than I, but honestly.. a cougar?!" He snorts and flushes almost as red as Mablung, embarrassed for his son. "Poor Elboron. It sounds most trying. And truly odd."

Éowyn tilts her head. "What does? Slang for a female acting so forward? Or that they have poached a term for a vicious cat?"

"Neither!" he protests, a little ruefully. "I suppose it is yet another change to Gondor's stuffiness. That widows would so aggressively court a younger man. There, I have said it. You may now accuse me of being old and set in my ways."

"You? Old? Never my lord. I get more grey hair each day while yours stays perfectly neat and dark."

Faramir stops to lift her hand and brush a kiss across her knuckles. It is true that he at nearly sixty looks youthful as a man but half his age, but it is not an advantage that he will press. "I am happy to be thought so, love, but time cannot dim your loveliness. Even Arnor pales beside your glow. "

Éowyn, despite herself, blushes at the compliment. "Shameless charmer."

He chuckles. "Always."

They walk on, turning at the drystone wall that looks out across the village fields. Éowyn pauses to thoughtfully touch the unfurling petals of a rambling, half-wild phlox. "So many widows."

"So many good men lost." Faramir heaves a heavy sigh, stands front to her back, winds his arms loosely around her waist and gazes north. Past the higher stands of pine and lebrethon, to the wilder, higher slopes of the north. "I fear Mablung is right in this, we needs must pay Elboron something of an official visit."

Éowyn groans. "I hate the fuss. Can we not just saddle WIndfola and Mithros? Ride up without a retinue?"

"Hmmm," Faramir cocks his head. "The thought has merit. That way our appearance will be unexpected."

Éowyn turns in his arms, excitedly. "Just us? No guards?"

"Mhm-hmmm." Mablung has reported that the way is clear. And both them have swords. It is long past the days when a man needed fear travelling past the Crossroads. "Perhaps we can take our time coming back. You did say you wanted to visit Henneth Annun and collect more of Renil's healing moss."

"I did! It grows more profusely there than any other slope."

Faramir plants a quick proud kiss upon her nose. "Then that is settled then. At least some good can come of the experience. This may be the one time I agree with Termalin about the perils of our printing press. I confess I expected Elboron to have some challenge, but nothing quite like this!"

"Not even then," his wife replies acerbically. 'Termalin the termagent' is Éowyn 's private title for their under housekeeper. Shrill and opinionated and staunchly convinced the world was going to wrack and ruin, she a thorn in her lady's side.

But sadly efficient at her job.

Éowyn looks up at him skeptically. "Truly, you are surprised? That _your_ handsome eldest attracts attention?"

"That _your_ striking son engenders this much competition!"

Éowyn snorts. "Trust me. There are many things a woman will do get a man's attention. Do you not remember when Mistress Paline twisted her ankle at the midsummer ball?"

Faramir's eyes widen in surprise. "When 'Bron was politely making sure she was not ignored?"

"Yes. That was a ruse. Or when Leudice came three times to have me poultice her cut finger?"

"That was…hunting?"

Éowyn laughs. "Yes. It was barely a scratch. And she visited each time the village had word he was in from Minas Tirith."

"I hadn't noticed."

"Your nose was likely stuck in the estate accounts. Or some moldy tome of ancient poetry."

Faramir ignores the jibe. The shadows are lengthening. He starts back toward the house, pulling Éowyn gently along when she cannot resist the urge to stop to weed. There are _some_ things he has noticed, but unlike his wife, he has promised their son not to pry. "Most lads are happy to be chased," he muses, thinking of Boromir as a lieutenant. "My brother kept one half the court on tenterhooks and the other half sighing hopefully."

Éowyn frowns and bites her lip. "True, but I am not entirely certain 'Bron has yet let himself be caught. If so he has been extremely circumspect" She pokes Faramir pointedly in the ribs. "And you won't tell me anything!"

He laughs aloud. The sound carries on the air and startles a nightjar from its hunting perch. "Oh impatient one! I have promised to keep my counsel. And I never lie." He gives her shoulders a sympathetic squeeze. "Sometimes it is best to not look too close. He is of age after all. And cuts quite the figure in his new uniform."

"Quite the figure?" Éowyn sputters, offended on Elboron's behalf. "Are you losing your archer's eyesight? Our boy is quite dazzlingly handsome. He takes after his fabled father."

Said father bends to plant a quick kiss on her cheek. The smirk when he straightens up is only a little smug. "Flattery will get you everywhere, my wild and wonderful wife. But it is not me he looks like."

Éowyn flushes prettily for his compliments still stir her heart. "He is everything a women could want. Smart. Brave. Loyal almost to a fault."

"When he isn't getting into fistfights." Faramir chuckles. "That is all you my dear."

She sighs, looking up into his eyes and planting a warm hand upon his chest. They have almost made it back to the house. The glow of the evening lamps is welcoming. Inside, Nera will be shepherding Théomund and Elfwine in the direction of their beds. In a few minutes they will both go in and settle the boys with a last good night kiss. "Actually," she notes, looking back to the upper room Elfwine has covered in proud spots of green and gold. "I rather think it is Eomer."

"One uncle in looks. The other in temperament and colouring," Faramir observes. "Elfhelm did report a national day of mourning when your brother's engagement was announced."

She shakes her head. "He has your eyes."

"Now who is shamelessly flattering?!"

With that, Faramir scoops Éowyn up into his arms, mounts the wide porch steps to stride quickly to the little terrace next to their private room. He frees a hand to push the tall sash door ajar, pausing on the threshold and nuzzling softly just behind her ear.

He does not set her down but trails a row of open-mouthed, fluttering kisses down her neck "Shall we see, my Fair Flower of the North, if we can scandalize the staff? I think there is a need to water the bougainvillia even if there are no books around."

.

...

As this is set in Annafan's _Surrender to the Steward_ universe... grin...

For those wondering about bougainvillia you can read the general release version here at Fanfic. Ao3 has the Director's cut. ^_^

Breastbags are the unlovely term for just slightly post-Medieval bras. Sort of a tunic with bands and front flaps. They sound decidedly hot and unconfortable.


	5. Chapter 5

Merindel rearranges the damp clothes and pins upon the line for a second time, relieved that the brief summer shower has passed on by. She steps back to admire her handiwork. The prominent gap to the right of centre between an apron and a tablecloth feels like just the right touch of verisimilitude. Not too wide, nor too narrow. Plausibly just the width of a missing petticoat, and for that she is very grateful. It is not in her careful, steady nature to exaggerate or embellish tales, much less to tell an outright lie, but this mission is a special one.

She has decided to join Fuiriach's widows in the very serious sport of Lieutenant hunting.

If the other women knew, they be fainting on the spot.

For twenty-five years Merindel has been an absolute model of good decorum. Done exactly as she was bid, looked out for others first and married the solid and true (if unexciting) man her parents chose. Cador's death came as a shock: an untimely accident on Harlond's docks that left her alone and lonely. And sincerely mourning him to her great surprise, but now, three hard years on, she finds she wishes something for herself. Some excitement. A chance to dream. The potential for more than long years of quiet drudgery.

If the other women of the village could try, then why not she?

Nervously she smooths down her best kirtle and embroidered apron, tucks a strand of glossy black hair behind her ear and takes up a threadbare corn broom. The Lieutenant should be arriving soon. She wants to keep an eye out but not look too very anxious or suspicious and so she positions herself upon the stoop. Turns but a handspan away from the yard's front gate. From this vantage point she can appear engrossed in her 'wifely chores' but still scan the lane out of the corner of her eye.

There is not long to wait.

Two soldiers on horseback approach: one dark, one blond, the hoofbeats of their stallions thudding in time to the sudden beating of her heart. At this distance it is too far to make out faces for the hoods of their Ranger cloaks are pulled up against the rain but the blond is almost certainly the Lieutenant. The dark haired man, taller and more broad of shoulder, must be Private Brand. The ladies at the market have dubbed him ' _Noth_ '. Giant. For good reason as she can see.

The Lieutenant raises a green gloved hand as they approach. His Rohirric stallion playfully tosses his grey head about and now she can see the tooled leather of the animal's breast plate. All running horses and twinning sheaves of wheat. There is more detail upon the headstall: green and white, the colours of far Rohan, and she thinks that this is fitting, favouring his mother as he does.

How lovely that he honours her proud home.

Mereindel shyly waves back, motions them into the yard and waits patiently for the pair to dismount. She resists the urge to pat her hair again. _Don't be a ninny Mer._ A soldier of several long campaigns like Lord Elboron is not going to fuss at a woman's tresses.

The two visitors loop their horses' reins about the fence and then, with something of a flourish, turn and pull their hoods back down.

Merindel almost drops her broom from shock.

Oromë. It isn't him.

"My Lady? My..my Lord? I mean…Lord Steward. Lady of Ithilien," she stammers, aghast and flustered, belatedly sinking into a curtsy. _How could this be?_ It really truly is Prince Faramir and his Lady Éowyn. The Slayer of the Witch King. At her home. She's only glimpsed them briefly from afar before but the market's pamphlets with their pictures have made their way to her. The Steward of Gondor's aquiline nose and kind grey eyes are unmistakable. As are the Lady of Ithilien's crown of shining golden hair and fair visage.

Somewhere in the tumbling fall of words 'Prince' comes out and apologies that are most gracefully declined. After more awkward introductions, the trio are left to stand in momentarily silence, blinking at each other until the Prince and his Lady exchange a glance and Prince Faramir's dark head inclines.

"Mistress Merindel?"

"My Lord?" She bobs another curtsey so deep her wobbly knees threaten to give out. "What can I do for you? What brings you to my home?"

"It is more what can we do for _you_ ," explains the Prince. "I understand you've had a theft."

Shame and a sudden surge of disappointment flood Merindel's young breast. _Nienna pity me._ What could she say? Lieutenant Elboron will not be investigating after all and now she, reluctantly, must keep up the ruse with her noble Lord and Lady. Why had they taken such an interest? Were they simply visiting and chose to help? Passing on the way to Anorien? It is the worst of luck for it is one thing to perpetrate an innocent fib on a young lieutenant. Quite another to lie to the highest authority in the land.

Visions of dark, dank dungeons crowd close, and it appears that diverting them from the mission will be her only hope.

"There is no need to worry yourself Prince Faramir. The item is but a trifling. The Lieutenant, your son, is certainly versed enough to investigate. He is quite admirably skilled."

" _At many things_."

The horse's whinny interrupts.

Is she mistaken or did the White Lady snicker softly? The words are too soft to clearly catch and now it appears the yard is dusty despite the rain for the Prince is suddenly taken by a coughing fit. His lady pounds him quite strongly on the back until he catches her hand in his, brushes his lips across her knuckles. "Thank you my sweet."

Merindel wants to melt on her behalf.

"Apologies, Mistress," the Prince continues. "What I meant to relay was that the Company is very concerned about the rash of thefts. And almost overwhelmed as they are so small a unit. We are here to help."

"But the Lieutenant has it all in hand!"

The Prince flushes and coughs again at her instant protest, turns away for a moment to meet his lady's gaze while Merindel does her best to look innocently bewildered. Is she acting suitably unruffled? Being firm enough that they need not interfere? She hopes so but there is a light of keen attention in her Lady's gaze that is most certainly disquieting.

"We have assigned him to a new patrol," notes Lady Éowyn while her lord takes a quick sip from a remarkably battered looking water flask.

"But surely that isn't necessary?"

"Oh, it absolutely is."

Faramir turns back, hand upon his hilt and brows drawn together in a frown. "He is under protection. A new patrol. Quite secret. We wouldn't want the men hurt if there is a desperate pack of cougars prowling about in broad daylight."

"Cougars?" she echoes quizzically.

Lady Éowyn vigorously nods. "Oh yes. If they are bold enough to enter the town and its outskirts _Valar_ knows what might happen if the gang got hold of him."

"Gang?!"

"Just so." Lord Faramir points back toward the river Fuir. It can be seen snaking through the valley, hung with a ribbon of low cloud that is slowly blowing out. "We have looked at the pattern carefully. There are too many incidents in the vicinity to be simply one. And they are known to hunt in packs."

Merindel pulls her handkerchief from her apron pocket, twists the cotton mercilessly to keep her hands from shaking. "Packs of Cougars?"

"Oh yes." Lord Faramir's mouth is not quite quirking in a frown. "Just Fuiriach's luck to be the victim. Vicious. Simply vicious animals. Fighting over the same prey. Especially the young and vulnerable."

"And swarming the unwary," adds Lady Éowyn. "It is the females that do the hunting. They have the Lieutenant's scent."

Merindel stands and looks bewildered between her quests. Wild packs of animals? Preying on the villagers and Lieutenant Elboron? There's been no word! No messages from the council.

A niggle of uncertainty begins to bloom but she cannot chase it now. "What shall we do?"

The Prince's gaze softens at her words. "We do not want you to be over fearful, Mistress. The villagers are now quite safe. As I said we have increased patrols. Captain Mablung is here personally to oversee the company and the Lieutenant will be kept quite safe. Now… if you would be so kind, pray show us to your laundry line? A petticoat I believe it was?"

"Ah…"

The White Lady most helpfully cuts in across her sudden speechlessness. "Can you identify it? The colour? Pale? Cotton or linen? Was it embroidered with some defining mark?"

"Oh!" The noise that leaves Merindel's mouth is practically a squeak. Now what should she do? Images of fanciful formal underthings chase round her suddenly pounding head. Surely a plain description would be best but the reality that she has only one, much patched and mended, its stained hem turned up so many times she could not count, sinks in.

Would folk believe she has a spare? _She?_ A widow with no soldier's pension to rely on and barely making rent. And what would a handsome young lieutenant, blessed with his father's kind eyes and his mother's glorious golden looks, want with the likes of her?

Her shoulders droop.

The whole scheme seems now beyond ridiculous and all she wants is for the Lord and Lady to go away.

"There must be some mistake."

"Mistress?" Lord Faramir's dark eyebrow raises.

"I... ah.. believe I have forgotten that mine was used for bandages." She waves desperately toward the barn. "My milch cow. She was cut upon the plough's sharp edge. "

 _The cow? Really, Mer? That is the best that you can do?_ Her cheeks flame at the hopelessness of the lie. The pasture hasn't been turned in the years. The plough is a rusted hulk somewhere inside the half-toppled shed but blessed _Yavanna_ , the Lord's demeanor doesn't change.

His lady's, however, is another case. "It would indeed take a swath of fabric to tend a cow," observes Lady Éowyn. "Shall I check the poor creature? I am experienced in the healing arts?"

"No! No, no!" cries Merindel when the older woman makes a move toward the low lintel of the barn. The occupant moos mournfully right on cue. "There is no need. I have handled it myself."

"You are quite certain?" asks the Prince.

"Oh yes."

Polite words of goodbye are said and then, as the Lord and Lady disappear down the lane, she wonders: is it her dizzied imagination or do they also look relieved?

.

~~~000~~~

.

They ride away.

"That went well," Éowyn remarks when they are well out of earshot, riding at ease with near hands loosely clasped and the others light on the reins. Faramir is looking straight ahead, eyeing the path ahead and considering their next route.

"Mablung will have his hands full with puzzled villagers," he says, at last, "but I feel certain he will soon have them set to rights."

Éowyn shrugs at that. "It may take a while for the Mistress to get the gist."

Faramir glances sidelong. "Despite the fact your impromptu quips nearly gave the gig away?"

"She was feeding me every line!" Éowyn protests, more forcefully than she means. It is not sporting, the way her husband can keep his face so easily smooth and blank. It is an asset in interrogation and subterfuge-as she knows each time her birthday comes around. "Just so long as they are no longer vying to 'handle' Elboron. The story about the cow was hopeless."

Faramir's tips back his head and laughs. "I would wager the other unattached soldiers would be happy to step up." He chuckles and bows low over Mithros' dappled withers. "The poor beast will not know it has been impugned. Not all are as shrewd as you, my lady. A masterful plan."

Eowyn allows herself a small smug smile. "It was wasn't it? And most fortunate that I am long in the torso. We look not too different in height on horseback."

"True."

"Something had to be done. We could not leave the situation as it was."

"No."

Another monosyllable. Faramir's gaze has darkened to a heather grey and Éowyn recognizes her husband puzzling at something troublesome. "What is it?"

He drops her hand and runs his fingers through his hair. "I thought she seemed rather sad."

Ah. "You may be right. We cannot undo the Music once it has rung," she notes sadly. "It cannot be easy to live alone." Or easy to manage without a husband's income. It has not escaped either of their notice that the cow barn's unpainted weathered wood soon would fall from rot. The roof sports broken tiles. Only a lone scrawny chicken scratches about the yard.

The memory is not sitting well with Faramir. "Surely there is some way to directly help those in need? The King's Allowances were phased out years ago. Now we rely upon the local councils to adjudicate people's need, redistribute a portion of taxes to those most worthy. But we know they are not always fair."

"Especially to women." Éowyn frowns, the germ of an idea beginning to shyly sprout. "A widow needs more help than most. A man who has lost his spouse can work, feed his children and himself. A woman who has lost her man makes but a fraction. And often has to care for little ones as well."

Faramir regards her thoughtfully. "You have a proposition?"

"I do. What if we took a small portion of the levies and gave an allotment to every widow? Those with no other income of course. It would avoid the rivalries in the towns and villages."

"And ensure that all had a certain starting base. I like it!" he declares, nodding slowly. "Instead of a soldier's, a sort of widow's pension."

"Handed out directly from the Prince's purse to keep the councils' honest."

"My darling you are a wonder. We came up here to solve an issue for Elboron, and now we leave with schemes for administration." He mouth quirks into a grin. "There is nothing so fiercely inventive as a mother bear with her cub."

She rolls her eyes knowing whereof he spoke. Yes, she has a reputation for defending her offspring, but the rumour she that had actually spanked Gondor's two year crown prince was quite untrue.

She'd only lightly swatted him. For biting Elboron again.

"You might remember that next time you try to annihilate Finn and I at draughts."

 _'Try?'_

The teasing brow and tone are to be punished at all costs.

The White Lady of Ithilien purloins a precious ancient cloak from off her husband's pack, takes a tight hold on the reins and urges Windfola into a gallop.

The ensuing chase is satisfyingly long and wet. Mithros, heavier and wider, cannot help but disturb the dripping branches.

.

~~~000~~~

.

Eventually they make their way beyond the ford, eshew the main road for a track half hidden by deep bracken and white elf lace. Relaxed and easy. Enjoying the rhythm of the ride, climbing until the sun begins to dip behind the White Mountains' far looming fastness.

By a cool trickling stream they make a makeshift camp. Warm the last of Gwinlith's stew and praise Brand's quite good biscuits. Mablung's wine is better still. It nearly vanishes before they settle themselves down to rest, a pair of swords lying in easy reach.

Éowyn, in naught but shirt and underthings, stretches out upon the bedroll, her head pillowed on Faramir's outstretched arm as the soft night falls and the tree frogs' chorus grows.

It is Cerveth. That time of year when the Huntsman and the Warrior shoot arcs of white fire across the sparkling vault above.

"There it goes! And there!" Faramir starts up, finger following the streaking falling star. "Did you catch it?" he asks, excited as a child.

"I did." Éowyn sets her hand back upon his chest and smiles. Her husband's wonder at all the world has only grown with each passing year. "There, another!" A third bright arc falls toward the deep ebon of the high pine trees.

"Erestor says they are thought as sparks from Menelmacar's great blade," murmurs Faramir softly, "but I wonder. They are so very bright and fleeting. If Elentári used drops of Telperion's silver dew to kindle all the stars then perhaps they are as raindrops off leaves after a summer storm. Showers of dew left from when they formed."

A lovely, almost poetic thought. "Mhmmm. And you need another trip north to Rivendell to compare your notes with Erestor?"

Faramir turns and Éowyn feels a smile against her hair. "My love, I am abashed, you are thinking circles around me once again."

"You are far, far too easy to read my Lord. Sometimes."

"Only because I am bedazzled by the stars within your eyes."

' _Shameless flirt_ ,' she sends, for a moment unwilling to break the night's quiet spell.

 _'Guilty! For I never stop wanting you.'_

' _As do I you.'_

Emotion shivers down along her spine. Faramir's reply has come wrapped in need and gentleness. Nestled this close into his naked chest, wrapped within his arms, she feels it. The rightness of all the world. Safe. Peaceful.

The forest is hushed and waiting for _Eärendil_ to rise. Below its canopy, her palm holds the warm and steady pounding of his heart. Upon her lips lingers a kiss that holds the promise of something more.

She wants it, of course, but first there is something to be said.

Faramir pulls the cover up against the chill and above the blanket, the scar of the Haradrim's errant dart gleams silver-white against sun-darkened skin.

Twenty years.

Can she have loved this man so long?

"Would that all days go as this did."

Faramir chuckles low. "Cold breakfast in a croft? I can arrange that any time my lady wishes."

She thumps him half-heartedly on the ribs. "Nay. We have come from the happiest of reunions with our grown son and ended here. Outside. Together. Away from cares and responsibilities."

He glances down, eyes glinting in the last of the firelight. "Are you saying you wish a change?"

"No. But I feel more pressed perhaps. The children are growing up and our lives have grown more full than I could ever see. An unexpected day away feels like time stops."

He nods sagely and gives her shoulders a thoughtful squeeze. "Then we should do this more. It has been wonderful." His smile pulls wider. "'Bron looked positively shocked and thrilled. He deserves it. Has stuck with his post under rather arduous conditions. The journey will do him good. And gain him some experience in diplomacy."

Éowyn thinks back to their welcome at the high outpost that morn. The surprise on four bearded faces. How the men had quickly got over their initial shock to set out a simple repast of jam and cheese and bread, while Faramir explained the King's new orders for the Lieutenant and also a harried Cervelli. "It is the perfect solution to the lack."

"King Bard has asked for the embassy. And Eldarion was already set to go." Faramir's fingers still where they are drawing little circles on her collarbone. "Most astonishing is how I did not have to twist Aragorn's arm too hard."

Of course not. His lady had already seen the benefit. Eowyn shrugs. "Arwen simply feels like me. She wishes some of her husband to herself."

"And Lorien in autumn is a more salubrious place than Dale. Or Minas Tirith," Faramir shakes his head. "Very neatly done. Aragorn relieved of pressing duty and Elboron plausibly pulled from his post. I am most thankful that you both have our best interests in your hearts. The plots are impossible to stave off!"

Éowyn bristles in mock affront. "You would want to?"

"Oh no! Let us be happy victims of your schemes. Dale is a very pretty place with the lake and river. The Glittering Mountain near. Both lads will do well."

The words and long slow, apologetic caresses begin to work their magic. Éowyn blissfully almost adrift, finds dreams flickering at the edge of need.

And worry that will not abate.

Then, as ever, Faramir sees what lies within her heart. What she cannot show her boy. No matter how very taut the stretch upon the cord. "It is far away. But not so far as the war in Rhun."

"But that was with you and Aragorn. And Eomer. This time they are on their own."

"And they are trained and ready for it there, as here."

' _Do not fret_.'

Faramir rolls, settles his weight and warmth above her like another blanket and stills, willing his certainty to seep in. Chasing away the private doubts that the world will never see.

"If there are any bands of goblins or Orcs about, Bard is not alone. Thranduil will help."

 _'Thank you.'_ Until he speaks it she does not know that she needs to hear the words out loud. Éowyn plants a soft kiss upon his cheek. "I think from this summer's travails I shall try to be more concerned for Cougars. 'Dari and Bron can't get into too much trouble can they?"

 _'Can they?_ '

At first Faramir has no answer and then he thinks upon it. Elboron and Eldarion. Sword-brothers. One with his uncle's fabled recklessness and the other with his uncles' eternal luck.

An entire city of good folk and two handsome, strapping princes on their first foray as ambassadors.

And King Bard with six granddaughters.

Their helpless sudden laughter ripples round the dell.

'

~~~000~~~

 _Epilogue_

Midweek is market day in Fuiriach and its womenfolk stand huddled in the square, like flocks of greedy starlings around an empty feeder, anxious for the latest news and eyeing the town's bare sign post none too surreptitiously. A new pronouncement for the month is due to come: a new lieutenant will be assigned and word has run through the settlement and outer hills fast as flame in fields of sun-dried chaff.

The merchants are doing a brisk and tidy business. Mablung eyes the unusually colourful panolply of ribbon, rouge and shoe. Squares his shoulders. Sets his hand upon his sword hilt and stalks up to the centre of the space.

The excited chatter stops. He takes his dagger from his belt and solemnly pounds two nails through the printed sheet. It is all there. The good news and the bad and he, fed up to his sizable back teeth with pretty things looking disappointed when they see his mug, wishes them all peace of it.

It is time for another man have that thrill.

The miller's wife, lettered and learned and quite immune to uniforms, is hastily pushed forward, takes a breath into her substantial lungs and begins to read.

"Lieutenant Elboron and several of his men have been reassigned on orders of the King. Please do not call at the barracks and request this group respond to your 'incident.' They are not here. Nor will they be and the Company is no longer investigating 'petty' thefts.

In other news, Lieutenant Derwin, his wife and three young daughters are moving to the village at the beginning of the month. We hope that Fuiriach makes them as welcome as it has the Second Company's other young recruits."

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Apologies.. no time for beta'ing.. Let me know if you see anything egregious. And thank you so much for reading!


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